


Nigger, Faggot, Mutie

by Talktooloose



Category: X-Men Movieverse, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Darwin origin, Gen, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talktooloose/pseuds/Talktooloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Xavier installs his newly-discovered mutants at a CIA facility, Havoc and Darwin both find it difficult to integrate with the group. They each wrestle with inner demons and difficult histories. Despite their differences, they form an unexpected friendship that ends tragically with the death of Darwin at the hands of Sebastian Shaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nigger, Faggot, Mutie

**Author's Note:**

> Although “First Class” very successfully evoked the early 60s in its design, it skirted around issues of the time that I feel have a bearing on the characters. Those were the early days of the civil rights movement in America. What would it have meant for Armand to be the only black member of the team? What role did racism play in his own history? (And btw, even though Armand Nuñoz is a Hispanic character in comicsverse, he is clearly African American in the movie. I just avoided using his last name altogether).
> 
> And since this is one of my stories, I have to make one of the characters gay… I got to thinking, why did Alex Summers need to end up on the wrong side of the law and why did he need to isolate himself? We learned that in jail, he always got himself thrown in solitary. What demons was he hiding from? If he was a young gay man during a time of extreme homophobia, what might he be struggling with? Perhaps his machismo and anti-social behaviour are clues.
> 
> And finally, I wanted to create a story wherein members of two oppressed groups find solidarity in their mutual struggles. In real life, all too often, this is not the case.

_Warnings: explicit language, use of both “n-word” and “f-word” in culturally appropriate contexts (they hurt and they are meant to hurt), implied racially-motivated violence, discussion of sexuality but no explicit sex_

* * *

Darwin heard them before he rounded the corner, their voices ringing with the sure confidence that only a gang of like-minded fools can muster up.

“All I’m saying—shut up, Williams—is we shouldn’t have to share living quarters with the mutie freaks!” 

The words echoed against the hard surfaces of the long corridor in the CIA facility outside Washington where Darwin and the others now lived and trained.

“Don’t shit yourself, Andersson,” another responded. Hard leather soles slapped hard tile, louder and louder as they approached. “You’re just scared you’ll find one in your bed tonight. Like a snake!” 

“I wouldn’t mind getting the Chiquita with the wings in my bed.” They whooped at that.

“Yeah, until you wake up in the morning stuck in her web!” 

Darwin considered turning and running back the way he’d come rather than meet them—these rude white boys, arrogant and armed, who were supposedly his new colleagues. But there was no time; and besides, he’d had enough of running from rude white boys. He was damned if he would let them see him hightailing it like some ghost-scared stepin fetchit in some damned old movie. He squared his shoulders and marched on as the four young agents rounded the corner.

They were identically dressed in black suits, three of them with heads as golden as cornfields in August, keyed up tight with hilarity, practically humming like a high-tension wire. The one he remembered as Andersson was just saying, “Yeah, Williams, you know all about waking up sticky in the morning—” when they spotted him.

“Watch it, boys,” Williams said in a low, toxic voice, his grey eyes narrowing as the group slowed to a halt. “The nigger-mutie here can probably spit flaming watermelon seeds at you.” 

Darwin was less than 10 feet from them and still didn’t know how he was going to handle the encounter. He doubted they could hurt him, even if they attacked together, even if they fired on him with shiny CIA ordinance. But it was all too likely that when the report was filed, he would be named the aggressor. Even if he didn’t end up in jail, he would lose his place with Xavier and Lehnsherr and his unprecedented chance to finally be somebody in America.

Inertia is a powerful force—he had learned that from his science textbooks—so he kept on walking, snapping his head sideways at the last second to give Williams a wide-eyed, horror movie stare. The agent and his cronies flinched back as if he might explode like an A-bomb, and then he was past them, turning another corner to put the incident behind him. He heard them snapping and growling like dogs in a junkyard. Williams yelled, “You watch your back, you sly mutie punk!” 

Darwin smiled coldly. The sweat pouring down his back was only partly from the stifling heat in the building. The moment had finally arrived, he decided, to bring out the bottle of Southern Comfort he had smuggled into the facility. With the lights in his room turned low and the fan doing little more than stirring the swampy air, he found himself remembering similar nights in Florida, alone with a bottle in a darkened room, when the daily effort of just living his life was just too much to bear. The heat of the liquor moved through him in counterpoint to the heat of the air, and the double heat made him cool-headed at last.

He was proud of how he had handled the confrontation. He hadn’t panicked like he might have in the past. He’d shown just enough bravery and flavoured the mix with a pinch of aggression. Xavier called Darwin’s mutant power somatic adaptation, but that kind of mental adaptation had taken him many long years to learn.

Thoughts of the present flowed into thoughts of the past on the river of Comfort, and as usual, he finally arrived back at the night when everything changed. He was 15 on a similarly hot night in Atlanta, following his big brother and his brother’s older, cooler friends around like a puppy. He felt some trepidation as they climbed over the fence into the swimming area of the whites-only sports club, but the older guys were confident. Besides, the place was closed; no one would know. And it was fun, _damn_ fun to dive and frolic in the cool water. Double fun to know what the members of the club would say if they found out they were swimming in nigger contamination! Horrors! The club would have to drain the pool and scrub the walls with acid to appease the rich, white bigots.

And so the boys swam under the full moon in the perfect waters, and it buoyed their heavy souls. They all knew it was time to go—had been time for some time. But the coolness of the water beguiled them, the chance to bathe in privilege for just one night. And so they were caught. The sons of privilege were suddenly all around them, coming in through every entrance, wielding baseballs bats and other bludgeons of healthy sportsmanship. And they brandished the weapons with the sure knowledge of their superiority, with the whiteness of their skin, with the promise of their moneyed future in the greatest nation on Earth.

Darwin—still called Armand back then—backed away with the older boys. There was only one way left to go: into the change room. And so that’s where they went, trying the locked exit doors, throwing themselves at windows that were caged with unyielding chain link. They were trapped. The end of the party. And then the white boys were there in front of them, with no pity in their souls. Darwin, wet and shivering felt the world slow down and grow narrow. He pressed backwards against his brother, who put a shaking hand on his shoulder and squeezed tight.

“The rats have nowhere else to scurry,” said one of the white boys. “Turn on the lights.” Fluorescents blinded them for a moment before they blinked and saw a wall of hate dressed in linen and deck shoes. But then their attackers were all looking in one direction: at him!

“Kid, what the hell are you doing with these niggers?” said the white boy in the centre of the group, its apparent leader. Darwin didn’t understand. He tried to speak, but he could make not a sound. The leader boy flicked his finger at the exit. “Get the fuck out of here. This is about to get ugly.” Darwin, confused, turned to look at his brother, but he too was staring at him uncomprehendingly.

“Go!” and he did, racing past the white boys and out of the change room. There was a mirror on the wall by the pool, where the girls would stop to check their lipstick before lying down to brown themselves in the burning sun. In it was a boy very much like himself—skinny, with large, intelligent eyes—but this boy was white. And when Darwin reached up to touch his own hair, the white boy in the mirror did the same. Together, they felt the soft, golden waves. And then from inside the building, the sound of the horrible beating began.

He ran.

He heard later that his brother had survived, though he would never see again from his left eye or walk without a limp. But Darwin, black-skinned again by dawn, left that night, never to return to his family. His shame was a wall he could not climb over. He hitchhiked south, lied about his age, and got a job washing pots in a restaurant.

He adapted. That was his power. He adapted to accidentally putting his hand on the stove by instantly growing an asbestos epidermis. He survived eating poison mushrooms by regrowing the nerves that were paralyzed. He adapted to being alone by growing his mind in night school and from the books he was constantly bringing home from the library. He grew immune to the word “nigger” by learning to be proud of himself. But that wasn’t easy, so from time to time, he survived by downing a bottle of Southern Comfort and crying himself to sleep.

One night, as he lay in bed after spending a long day in a hot kitchen, he read about the theory of evolution. He said to himself, “I survived that night by evolving into a white man.” That’s what they said on television, wasn’t it? The ones who were trying to stop the civil rights movement said that white people were more evolved. But his brain rejected this. Evolution was not about _progress_ ; it was about adaptation. White, black, amphibian—Darwin knew that life did what it had to do to survive. No form was better or worse, except in how well the adaptation allowed you to live another day.

He looked at the bottle, which was still three-quarters full. “I don’t want to drink you alone,” he told the amber liquid.

_– X –_

Alex Summers climbed the steps at the back door of the CIA facility and waved his pass at the guard. The doors swung open, and just like every other time they did, he was amazed for just a second. He showed his pass and they let him into the building. He showed his pass and they let him out. After five years in and out of juvenile detention facilities and one year in adult jail, the concept of doors that opened on request was still a hard one to accept.

It was after office hours, and the building was quiet as a crypt. If he listened hard, he might hear a door slam or a typewriter shitting out one more sheet of top-secret crap to join the other million sheets that no one would ever read. He thought he must be crazy to have come back here so early on a Saturday night. He should still be out enjoying himself with his new troop at that crappy little diner. But the truth was, he liked the stone-hard silence around him. Back at the diner, it had all been talk, talk, talk. Too much to take in, too many fucking questions he didn’t want to answer, you know?

Maybe he should just leave for good. He didn’t need to be part of any team of jerks. Nah, that wasn’t fair. Banshee was okay, and even Bigfoot, or Brains or whatever. Sure, he liked to razz the guy, but you couldn’t argue with what he could do. And after all, Hank was the one Mystique was all over like a wet tongue. Alex had kind of promised himself that tonight would be the night he stole that hot bitch away from him. After all, Alex was the one that got the looks from the ladies; always had. At least when he wasn’t locked up in a cell.

He would have gone for it, too. Clearly the lady was angling for some action. But he just… couldn’t. Or the time wasn’t right or something. Besides, she was obviously a big slut, and that just didn’t turn him on, you know?

He realized he was standing there in the lobby, staring out into the night, not moving. _So what is it, Alex? You fucking ran to get back here, and now you don’t know what to do with yourself?_ He decided he needed a shower. Maryland was a fucking oven! He moved purposefully through the empty halls.

And forget the other one. I mean, that _mamacita_ , Angel was fucking foxy for sure. He saw how the other guys stared at her. But it wasn’t what he wanted! Hey, he was as horny as the next red-blooded American, but come on! Not with something like _that!_

He would know the right girl when he found her. She wouldn’t be brown. Or blue. Just a nice girl like everyone in prison claimed to have back home. And then it would all work out. Then his feelings would be normal again. He could just imagine doing it with that _Chicana_ whore! She’d be all greasy—pawing at him—all lust and juice… Disgusting. He knew all about that kind of disgusting shit. That was what it was like in prison! The savage force of sex, the slobbering hunger, as destructive and uncontrollable as his mutant power. Let that shit off the leash, and you’re fucking finished! He hated it… fucking hated it when it took him over. To surrender, or to conquer. Both equally humiliating if he thought about it. He would hate himself for days after, picking fights to be put back in solitary where things were quiet. Where temptation was safely locked away behind steel and concrete.

He reached his room but couldn’t find the key, checking his front pocket, his back. _Better to be alone where you don’t have to deal with it_ , he thought.

“Hey, Alex! Whatcha doing back so early?” 

His head snapped up in surprise. The negro. Just what he needed. He answered with a sneer, “It was a crappy greasy spoon. Prison smelled better than that shit hole.” He had his key now, and he kept his head down, trying to fit it into the lock. He didn’t want to talk. Not to anyone, and especially not the negro. In prison, white and black kept to their own kind. It made life simpler.

But… “Hey, I found a bottle of Southern Comfort at the bottom of my suitcase. Come on into my room and we’ll make friends with it.” 

Alex’s hand was shaking, and the key dropped to the floor. This was bad. Sometimes just the thought of finding the words to say was too much to contemplate. The burden of conversation—how did people do it day in and day out? He bent for the key, the heat suddenly wringing him out like a dishrag. “Nah, Darwin,” he said, trying to at least _sound_ cool. “I’m not feeling so—” 

“Please, Alex. I kind of don’t want to be alone with this damn bottle, if you know what I mean. Makes me think about bad shit.” Alex dared a look into Darwin’s big brown eyes, and he saw something there. Some possibility of peace. The man extended a hand to him which Alex pretended not to see. “You’d be doing me a favour.” 

Darwin’s room was small and pleasantly dark. Darwin had thrown a big blue handkerchief over the bedside lamp and the diffuse light made the whole, steamy cell seem safer. Darwin sat on his bed and Alex took the army-issue metal desk chair. With great relief, he realized the black man didn’t want to chit-chat or bullshit about broads or anything. He was content to let the silence hang peacefully between them, and for that Alex respected him. They were seated close enough that they could pass the bottle back and forth without effort. Darwin drank small, measured swallows, but Alex was taking a solid swig each time. The burning felt good. It cut through his nerves and made the world softer. When Darwin finally spoke, Alex was in a calmer frame of mind.

“So, what were you in prison for?” 

“Which time? Truancy, robbery. Arson. Arson again.” Their eyes connected and neither flinched away for a long moment.

Darwin raised an eyebrow. “Deliberate? Or you lost control of… your fireworks?” 

“Sometimes one, sometimes the other. In any case, I burned down this shoe factory one night, and that’s how I ended up in honest-to-god grown-up prison.” He took another big swallow of the hot liquid. Now the liquor seemed to be fuelling him. He felt a rebel desire in him that he feared and welcomed.

Darwin said, “I always worked damn hard to keep _out_ of jail” He took back the bottle, looking at just how far down the level had got. “Sometimes I think it takes more work to stay out than get yourself locked up. At least for my kind.” He took another small drink.

The liquor heat brought Alex to his feet. He wiped his mouth. “Yeah, no shortage of your brothers inside, that’s for sure!” He belched loudly. For a second the room swam and he grabbed the chair for balance. “Heh, that’s some fine hootch you have there, Darwin! I need another taste.” He grinned at the man, but Darwin didn’t hand the bottle back. Alex gave a short, sneering laugh and turned away like he didn’t care. He spotted something in the corner. “Oh shit, look at that!” It was a box containing maybe 30 LPs. He kneeled down and began thumbing through the spines. “No rock and roll? Shit, this is all long-hair stuff! Bach, Beethoven… Damn, buddy, we need something we can dance to!” He turned around, grinning. He felt good. But the grin dropped away in an instant as he stared up at the tall, thin man. Darwin was just unbuttoning his sweat-drenched shirt, fanning himself with a newspaper as he dropped the garment to the bed. In the dim humid light, the wet black skin glistened. Alex thought the man looked like a statue in some museum. Perfect, powerful.

Then Darwin was crouching at his side, his long fingers flipping quickly through the records. Alex’s senses were flooded by the half-naked proximity. His heart pounded. He was dizzy. Darwin pulled out a record and took it to the portable turntable on the dresser. “This is Charlie Mingus. If you can’t dance to this, you have no soul, brother!” 

Darwin didn’t exactly dance as the pulsing bop beat started up, but he closed his eyes and swayed to the music like he was hypnotized. His fingers and his lips moved as if he was the one playing the sax solo that spun out of the record and circled the small room like a hungry snake. The dizziness closed tighter around Alex, pushing the world farther away. He stood and began moving too, awkwardly, afraid to let the beat really touch him. He pulled off his t-shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was dancing weird, free. He could almost see himself. _Too girly_ , that’s what poppa always said. _Too damn pretty and soft_. And Scott would say, “Leave him alone, Dad, he’s just a kid.” 

He was dancing closer to Darwin now, who was lost in his jazz trance. A couple of times, their bodies touched, an elbow, a shoulder. And Alex saw the negro smile without opening his eyes. An invitation? He knew about that. He knew this dance from late nights in prison, and from dark alleys where good citizens didn’t dare go. In one swift move, he reached up and took Darwin’s face in his hands, pulling him close, combining their heat, lips open to meet warm dark lips.

“What the FUCK?!!” Darwin shouted right into his ear, and Alex felt two strong hands connect with his naked chest, shoving him backwards so he lost his balance and crashed to the ground, bringing the metal chair down with him.

He rubbed his head where it had hit the chair leg, opening his eyes in surprise to look up at Darwin’s equally astonished face. Alex was already trying to get up, to say the words that would undo, but nothing was coordinated, not his limbs, not his mouth.

And Darwin saying, “You’re a _faggot?!_ Shit! And you thought I brought you in here for… _that!?_ ” 

Alex was on all fours now, trying to get the sequence of arms and legs right so he could stand and get the hell out. But the word was ringing in his ear: FAGGOT! “Nuh-no…” he mumbled. “It’s not what you think. It’s you! You brought me in here—” 

“Hey, man, I just offered you a drink. You’re the one who tried to fucking kiss me!” And out of nowhere, Darwin laughed.

But Alex was not about to be laughed at. He was on his feet, testing the stability of the enterprise (not good) and mumbling through clenched teeth, “Goddamn nigger, you tricked me! I didn’t want to—” 

“Okay, Alex, take it easy. Give me your hand before you fall—” 

Alex slapped the hand away. “Shut up, nigger! You think you’re better than me?!” The fury shot through him—burning oil on waters of shame. A fight was what they needed. Some blood and bruises, and then they could forget it. That was how men handled situations like this.

But Darwin’s voice was calm now. He reached out the hand again. “Alex, you’re just drunk. This is all gonna be better in the morning, you’ll see.” 

Alex felt like crying. He didn’t want it _better_. He wanted everything torn down. The whole world! Now! He gathered up all his will and swung a hard fist at the other man. But instead of connecting to a bony jaw, Darwin’s face suddenly seemed to be made of soft rubber. Alex’s fist sunk in and then rebounded back out. Time stood still for a moment, and Darwin looked embarrassed by his own show of mutant power. And then Alex was sick, racing across the room to the little bathroom where he barely made it in time to puke up the greasy dinner and all the Southern Comfort in the toilet, heaving again and again until he was done.

And this time he didn’t shake off the arm that helped him stand and stagger to the bed. _Thanks, buddy,_ he said, or did he just think it? Then he was unconscious. 

– _X –_

Darwin woke up with the sun in his eyes, on the carpet by his bed. His head throbbed a bit when he moved and he was wicked thirsty, but he bet he felt better than the boy would (Alex was up on the bed snoring) when he finally returned to the world of the living. Darwin got slowly to his feet and tip-toed to the bathroom. He closed the door quietly and peed a lot, then took his toothpaste glass and drank a lot of water. He felt old. He was only 30, but he had more than ten years on some of Xavier and Lehnsherr’s recruits. Did these kids have any idea what they were getting into?

He closed the toilet and sat down to think about the events of the previous night. First he thought about all the things he had always believed. Then he thought about the parts of those beliefs that _bugged_ him. And with his calm methodical mind, he set about rewriting what he thought he knew in light of what he had learned.

Fifteen minutes later, he opened the door carefully and found the blond boy, looking gutted and desolate, sitting up in his bed watching him. When their eyes met, Alex turned away, his cheeks red.

“Good morning,” Darwin offered and got a grunt in return.

Alex said, “I gotta go.” But when he tried to stand, it didn’t really work and he just ended up sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

Darwin brought him some water which he drank thirstily. The older man picked up the desk chair which had spent all night tipped over, as if it too had drunk more than was advisable. He mounted it backwards, leaning in towards Alex. “Listen,” he began carefully. “What happened last night… I’m not mad or anything.” 

The boy groaned. He spoke in a dead flat voice. “Nothing happened. We were drunk. You don’t remember. Neither do I.” 

Darwin sat with this for a minute. He could leave it there; that would be the safest thing to do. But if Alex was keeping secrets, that affected them all. Besides, he was a mess, messing up his life. Darwin again felt the difference in their ages. He felt like he had a responsibility.

“Alex,” he began. “I wasn’t drunk last night; not much anyway. You were. And you thought I wanted something different than just a friendly—” 

The boy’s head snapped up, the eyes red and panicked. “I didn’t think nothing! I was just drunk! I’m not… I’m not a…” 

“Hey, whoa. Listen to me. I don’t care. I known guys like you before. I used to think they were, well, fucked up, but—” 

“Shut up, Darwin. I’m not like those guys. Do I look like a sissy?!” 

“No you don’t. I’m just saying—” 

Alex jumped up and moved around him. Darwin was sure he was going to leave, but he stopped by the door. “Well don’t. Shut the fuck up. I won’t be judged by any… any damn…” 

Darwin turned in the chair and stared at the boy, unflinching. “By any what? Say it. You did last night.” 

Alex was breathing heavy, his eyes blurred. “Nigger!” 

“Faggot,” Darwin returned, not angry, but not backing down.

“Uppity, nappy-headed fuckin’ nigger!” 

“Punk-ass, jizz-licking faggot,” Darwin offered. And after a tense moment: “Your turn.” 

For a second, he thought he had made a mistake. Was the boy going to let loose with his powers? Destroy the room? Possibly burn down the whole wing? But instead, his face fell in on itself, like the air had gone out of his world, and he sank to the floor, his head hanging, one hand clenching and unclenching as his shoulders shook.

Darwin let him alone for a few minutes until he was done crying. Because men don’t want to be comforted out of tears; they just want to know you’re still there when the crying’s all done. Darwin got up and sat on the floor a few feet away from him.

“I was doing some thinking before you woke up,” he said. “This whole operation—meeting more mutants, finding a purpose here—it’s putting everything in a new perspective. If something like what happened last night happened a year ago, I would have been done with you. No way a queer’s gonna be my friend.” He saw Alex’s shoulder give another shake. “But you know what? I would be wrong.

“When Xavier and Lehnsherr brought us here, I thought my life was finally beginning. I was going to be a CIA agent! A special one with powers everyone respected. But you know what I am to all those slick-dressed agents? Just another nigger. Worse! A nigger with powers that scare them shitless.” 

Alex raised his head. He sniffed back some snot and took a big shuddery breath. He was listening.

Darwin continued. “And suddenly, there’s not so much difference between you and me, mister. Or between me and those girls. Or even between me and a genius like Hank. Those agents hate us all equally. So maybe that means we have to respect each other as equals. What do you think?” 

“Maybe,” Alex said. “Yeah.” 

“So listen to me. Even if you are a… a homosexual or whatever—” 

“I’m not! I was just drunk! It’s not like those other guys. Those sissy faggots who dress all—” 

“Whoa, easy! Okay, whatever. But if you ever came up to me at some point in the future and said, ‘Hey, Armand, I’m _that way_ …’” He paused and looked Alex in the eye. “I’m just saying it would be cool.” 

Darwin extended a hand for Alex to shake, but Alex passed it by and ran a hand through his greasy mop of blond instead. He pushed his lip out and looked hard. You had to learn to look hard in prison. “Okay. Cool. But I’m not _that way_ , you know?” 

Darwin shook his head and smiled. “That’s fine too, kid.” 

– _X –_

Alex was more withdrawn during the next few days, even by Alex’s standards. It wasn’t that he was trying to make a point or anything. He just couldn’t look them—him—in the eye. But he was grateful when Darwin cornered him after one of their CIA training classes (which they shared with suspicious non-mutant recruits, who sat as far from their group as possible).

“Hey, Alex, the kids are finally dragging me to the infamous greasy spoon. You come too.” 

“Nah, I just want to—” 

Darwin called loudly to the others, “He said yes. He’s coming.” A small cheer went up that did something to uncurl the mad kink in Alex’s brow. It was a loud and late night, and he was doing pretty well, holding the panic at bay. It helped that part way through he realized Darwin was looking out for him. Whenever the pressure of all that conversation and laughter was starting to make him feel like a trapped rat, the older man would take him out for a smoke. Or if Raven asked him one question too many, Darwin would jump in and take the spotlight off so he could retreat into the safety of silence.

So, after that night he let himself relax, as much as Alex Summers could relax. He still needed a lot of time on his own, walking, thinking. And during a lot of that time, he watched Darwin from a distance. He watched the way the man moved. He watched his slim hips and broad shoulders. He watched how Darwin listened to people. That was when he was most beautiful.

And in bed at night, he kissed Darwin—or at least the imagining of him. He did other things too with his phantom lover, but those imaginings didn’t last long before ending with soul-tearing orgasms. After he came, he had to make himself sleep immediately or he’d spend hours in twisting remorse. So mostly, he just imagined the kissing. And it was better than anything had ever been. Because he wasn’t doing it like he used to, with half his brain in cold storage. He was fully there. Alex Summers, loving another human being. Loving a man. At least in his mind.

Magneto and Professor X were away on a mission. That itself had the group excited because it was a taste of what they themselves would soon be doing. They spent hours together speculating on what was happening, where the men had gone. They were all friends now. They shrugged off the scorn of the larger CIA because they had each other. And sometimes, when they were horsing around, playing pick-up games of mutant football, Alex dared touch Darwin. Just on the back or shoulder, but it was electrifying.

They were together in their lounge when trouble found them. The situation went bad so quickly, they had no time to prepare. Darwin was the first to say they had to do something as the agents were dying all around them.

And then trouble was right outside the door.

_“Hey! Hey! You want the muties? They’re right through that door. Just let us normal people go. We’re no threat to...”_ A short cry. Another falling body. And then he was with them. He said his name was Shaw. Alex kept looking to Darwin, but the older man was as out of his depth as the rest of them.

Angel left their side to join the bad guy. The group was crumbling, Alex realized. No more safety in numbers. No more safety in a CIA fortress. No more safety anywhere.

Darwin turned to him. “Alex, I’ve gotta do something. When I tell you, let loose with everything you got.” 

Panic flooded his chest. “No, wait. You can’t…” He shoved at Darwin as if to shake him out of this foolishness, but what he really wanted was to grab his friend, hold him back.

“I can protect Angel. Wait for my signal, then full power.” And he went. Just like that.

“Stop. I'm coming with you.” 

“Good choice. So tell me about your mutation.” 

“I adapt to survive.” 

Darwin turned and caught Alex’s eye, and maybe they had become telepaths like Xavier because he was sure he could hear Darwin’s eyes saying, _Everything_ _’_ _s going to be okay, my friend_. And maybe, just maybe, Darwin could hear him answering, _I love you._

“Alex!” Darwin yelled. “Do it!” 

What happened next was impossible. Shaw took it all, all of Alex’s unstoppable power. Ate it. Swallowed it. Took his best and made it nothing.

“Protecting your fellow mutants,” Shaw said. “It’s a noble gesture. Feels good.” 

And he touched Darwin, just as Alex had always wanted to. And Darwin and Shaw locked eyes like lovers. And it wasn’t a kiss he gave him; it was worse.

As the killer and his men teleported away in a cloud of smoke, Alex watched Darwin dying, torn apart by the powers that Alex kept hidden from the world, powers so untamed and destructive that there was no name for them.

Darwin turned to him and reached out his hand one last time. And then he was gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Kuriadalmatia and my husband


End file.
